Where once the world narrowed into naught but gray dust and desolation, the gods called for life. Wielding the elements of fire and light, dark and wind, earth and water, spark and time, they have created Helovia. The realm is set within the mythical globe of Loorien, a planet rich with all variety of creatures and blessed with all manner of magic. Originally populated by nomadic, tribal characters, they've since grown into massive empires saturated with culture and history. Separated into four distinct segments of Helovia, called "The Regions," each band of horse strong enough and capable enough, took up the power and responsibility of leadership. Unicorns, old, wise and mysterious, took to the north, hidden in forests of mists and shadows and rarely making themselves known beyond their cliffs of the World's Edge. Equines, vast, organized and militaristic, split into two, one group went north to the Windtossed Foothills and the other group went south to the Dragon's Throat. Pegasus remained nomadic, making their homes in various parts of The Wilds in a migratory manner. For many generations, the land was peaceful and calm, but peace was never the way of the gods. With a clash of argument, war and bloodshed massacred Helovia, and in the aftermath, the realm was eerily quiet. Now, as newcomers sweep into this land, they are met with the lingering bitterness of the gods and the struggle to reclaim what was lost. Nothing remains safe or certain while sorcerers and soldiers alike brood and bide their time for revenge, honor and glory.

Site Wide Plots

Kaos :: The Beginning of the End☼ - 6/2017 - Kaos placed Helovia in a time-bubble for a short period of time, but the Helovian gods are fighting back. But Kaos is powerful- far more powerful than anyone thought. This may be the beginning of the end of Helovia as we know it.

Endless Night :: Broken Magic Plot☼ - 8/30/13 - The earth god has returned and is walking across Helovia to heal the land. Every area can now be considered lush and prosperous, but the sun has still not risen.

☼ - 7/19/13 - The moon has risen in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess of the moon. Lamp trees which light the paths have grown brighter, moon flowers which grow in dark places have begun to grow and prosper and the world is brighter, filled with a new hope.

Endless Night :: Dead Magic Plot☼ - 6/22/13 - The gods of Helovia, in order to protect the world, have disappeared into the rift, leaving the world sunless, moonless and magic-less in their absence. Only the herdlands have a source of light, but lamp-trees with glowing leaves and branches sporadically line the popular roads and paths from place to place.

Doppleganger Plot☼ - 6/20/13 - The God of Time is still struggling to close the rift though which the dopplegangers have come. He has requested that his brothers and sister assist in closing this hole, but without knowing why it opened, the task is proving difficult. Magic still remains faulty and hard to control, but the herdlands continue to be places of refuge for those who are fortunate enough to call these lands home.

ORANGEMOON cools off the lands with a a viscious force. Colder than normal, a sign of things to come during Frostfall, Helovia is bathed in a rich tropical lushness - albiet a cold one. The coastlines of the Dragon's Throat are pelted constantly by tidal waves, and the desert climate is humid but chilly. Ice begins to form early in the Aurora Basin leaving the winding trails slick and dangerous. The mists of the World's Edge coat everything in a glistening crystalline shine which encourages mould to grow everywhere. The Spectral Marsh is the only area which remains fertile, blissfully temperature and lush.

Cotm

Character of the Month for
June, 2017

WEAVER, Corporal of the Aurora Basin, is a relatively recent addition to Helovia and has taken it by storm. Branded with the seal of Death on her chest, intrigue and interest follow both her past and present. Though she is assuredly beautiful, her sometimes sharp personality reveals that there is more to this uni-peg hybrid than meets the eye. Proving herself able on the battlefield in the Basin’s warrior ranks, we can’t wait to see her test her mettle against the looming Kaos happenings! Congratulations!

Helovia RPG was created by Tamme and Blu and coded by Tamme also known as Schwartze. All coding, palettes and imagery are copyrighted to the website and are not for use outside of Helovia. Thank you to our ServerMaster for hosting Helovia. A special thanks goes to Neo for all of her coding help and fixing Tamme's errors, Boom, for her loyal service and creation of the Time God, and to Ali for her consistent contributions and dedication.

One must ask if they mind the steep, rocky solitude of the North, because it is not for all. Though she ghosts through this world of white, and stone, appeased by the monolithic guardians ringing her, pleased in the shadow of their reaching peaks, and eager to wander the black catacombs of their caverns, not all enjoy the cold, or the thinness of the air. Some fear the downward drops, and sheer effacements, more than they find delight while wandering the heart of perfect, alpine meadows, while others still shy away from the discomfort of the cold, seeking warmer, more bountiful realms…

For the weak.

She traipses, canters, and trots, her legs and endless, forward march of peculiar grace, and savage leaps, the muddy trails leading them to the land which had been the Reaper’s, and was now merely the Valkyrie’s. A small giggle is procured from the demoness, her eyes narrowing in suspicion of such a title, on such a dulcetly painted beauty. Though, certainly, she had looked nice against the ebony might of the wielder of Death, Beloved was unsure as to how much of that dark ambrosia the Rosy Dawn might deliver to the realms of the living. Could she stir the masses into the ferocious head of the maul? Did she have the fortitude to be the shaft, to reverberate with the force of that brutal crown’s impact, and not splinter away, fragmented, culled, by the very power one wished to wield?

Only time will tell. She certainly had been loud enough to rouse the dead, thinks the devilish one, gaze slowly flowing back to the traveler in her midst, her cherub’s voice singing, sweetly, into the mountain’s springtime breeze.

"Ahead, there, see how the stone shadows itself, a hidden rift?" she gestures as she speaks, her sentence closed by the ominous indication with her horn towards a seemingly unremarkable change in the mountain’s stone face; if it had not been pointed out, it might have gone unnoticed entirely, which Beloved was sure was the point. It had been part of the allure, of this place.

Clandestine, a place for those who walked the night, and ducked the radiance of the sun; surely Weaver had noted the peculiar habits of the mare, how she often winced, as if in pain, as their travels forced them beneath the blinding light of the Fire Keeper. Here, in the mountains, that Sun was blotted by the stone, its radiance less often punishing, and, like those within the valley just ahead, hidden. Through the almost invisible portal she passes, and out into the green land ensnaring the lake.

The rotting sentinels, rusted, weak, sag meekly where they once stood proud, drawing again her maddened hiss of disapproval, her ears flicking back atop her crown, as she sidesteps away from this treacherous waste of Father War’s gifts. Still, the realm of the unicorns is there, lit in the afternoon sun, the snow glutted earth already baring the green fronds of summer, where the ground had not been churned into murk by passing hooves.

"The important ones will find us soon. Come, come," bobbing her head erratically, inviting with occasional, cryptic juts of her muzzle towards the lake, as she steps further within, her giggles more swift, in the heightened moment of her successful catch, and being the first to walk her through the threshold of the mountain. Her steps lead them towards the shore of the unfreezing waters, not far into the land; unafraid for recompense or punishment, the white witch allows her patron further inward for the fact that she has faith in her ability to simply kill her, if she’s a false face, a beguiling whore, bent on bringing mayhem into Beloved’s kingdom. "they’ll not mind if we quench the thirst of wandering, as we wait."

Mountains, when you have wings, are not a particularly treacherous thing. She has this ability to cheat, you see. Though to be fair, she’s not afraid of plummeting off a mountain even without her wings. She’s foolish, yes, but she’s pretty sure this place didn’t take her magic. Even if it did take her raven. Because by now, she is very sure he’s gone. Raven never left her side, spending the better portion of his days perched on her back or fluttering nearby being obnoxious, as Ravens are wont to do. She won’t admit she that misses him, but she misses him.

They are largely quite on their trek, the pale mare seeming to know the path well, though Weaver keeps pace. She prices herself on being elegant and graceful, even as they trudge and leap through and over mud. Even on paths that are unfamiliar to her own feet. She spent her childhood wending her way through pine forests and mountain paths. Her feet are sure, her steps steady. Everyone once in a while, Weaver asks where they are as the scenery changes, trying to learn the lay of the land as she goes, hoping the strange mare will answer.

Weaver notices how the mare cringes as the sun grows brighter, those amber eyes peering sideways, trying to figure out this strange mare who referred to herself in the third-person. Please, don’t let them all be like this. She’ll be high tailing it out. The mare seems to giggle at her own thoughts, and Weaver doesn’t answer, not entirely sure she wants to know the answer. Not that she’s afraid, but rather she wonders if she’d even understand whatever words came slipping from those pale lips.

Eventually, Beloved points toward a rather impossible to find rift in the mountain side. Well well. She liked the entrance, though still, she grins slightly, that mischievous grin of hers that’s probably lost on Beloved. “So I’ll just fly in?” She ruffles the black feathers tucked against her side, the soft light of the north just catching the hint of blue.

They continue forward, passing what once looked like proud and impressive sentinels. “What happened there?” she asks, tossing her head at the things that now stood rusted and weak and unimpressive. Her mane settles back haphazardly on both sides of her neck, that same sort of wild careless beauty that her mother had. But no one here would compare her to her mother.

“Do the important ones have names?” She doesn’t stop the questions as they come, rather trying to gain whatever information she can. Were these places like the kingdoms in Beqanna, ruled by Kings and Queens? Were they traditional, led by men with women left to breed (this she doubts, if only because Beloved really doesn’t strike her as that type). But then again, what did Weaver possibly know? She keeps following, grateful for the drink at least. It has, in truth, been quite some time since she’s had water or food, so she dips her head toward the waters that are, mercifully, not frozen in this wasteland of a place.

To be fair, it is no wasteland. It’s is cold and wintery, despite where they left being relatively warm. But there seems to be grass peeking through the ground, which seems promising. There’s no pine forest as she is so used to, but the pine forest had always been her mother’s really. In a way, she’s glad to find that her shelter is looming mountains, that her life no longer has to be dictated only by the things her mother loved. They shared many loves, of course, but no one here could compare her to The Raven Queen. “I like it,” she says, her voice casual and careless as always, but the words true enough.

She’ll just fly in, asks, but really tells, Yr’s Weaver, and the pale wolf smiles, her cackles swift and free. The wicked one knows what dwells in the stone halls, beneath the veneer of roses and gleaming frost, having been one to walk here before the new rules had been passed by whoever had permitted them. She still saw them, however, the old ghosts, and though she wonders if they will evaporate without the golden bitch and the Reaper, she also wonders what sort of fool would draw attention to things undesired by some in this vale.

It was not Beloved’s way to follow politics, or really care for the outcome of the mortal realms, whether they burned, or thrived, around her. She does not discern between one lineage or another, cares not for what one carries on their back, or between their legs; they were all filled with blood, and wet, pulsing things, and they all swam a river with a predesigned end. What became of the others did not matter, no more than what became of ash, or dust. No… what Beloved cared for was power, and power came in all sorts of packages, from magic, to might, to secrets.

"You could," replies the wicked one, her brows rising, her lips twitching into a smirk that says a lot more than those two words do.

They walk, however, together, the wretched wastes of bronze and wire drawing attention, as they always do, though not the sort they had once. Pausing, her frown deep, and ugly, she shakes her head, the grimace seemingly tossed away for her wild smirk, and the demoness offers a roll her shoulder, and a giggle.

"Orphans, waste," she seems to curse, before her cherub’s voice again sweetly sings, her silver rimmed eye shivering with the wonder as to what,, indeed, "once a man with marks the same as the metal tended them. His children? Beloved does not know. He abandoned them, so it seems."

He had not been here, regardless, she thinks she says out loud, moving again into the vale, the smooth surface of the lake shining, a beacon to which she is steadily lured. Glancing back at Weaver, her dark eye roves, her jaw clenching, and unclenching.

"Lady Hotaru," claims the maiden from her convoluted mind, knowing that the Shouting Dawn will do little in favor of Weaver should the rose toned woman find them here; of the others, Beloved does not know, but for her General, ironically the only soul she remembers from among those who gathered here, to sleep the night away, while the wolves wandered. "And the General, Erebos. The others are merely faces. You would not know their names."

The Braided Pony, who tended the thieves, and the aging, bay singer of sad songs, with her gentle heart. The one who watched the Mirror was young, and pretty; there was also the Blue Mare, who seemed to have walked from the sea, rather than fallen from a womb, and the Little Weaver, who was not this Weaver. They were names, perhaps, but only to Beloved, and Yr’s Weaver would find no use in them.

The unfreezing waters greet them, the pale one’s maw soon wet and her throat no longer parched by wandering. Lifting her crown, water drips back to its parent source, and her lips curve into a smile of pleasure, her few giggles warm, and chaotic.

"Good," she states, committing herself to the role of tour guide with a twisted frown, as there seems to be no others arriving, as of yet, "to the North, we will go, if none come soon, to the caverns, and the ever-warm waters."

The General spent hours weighed down by nothing but grief and agony, climbing to the tallest heights and summits in the kingdom, looking upon on the rest of the world with naught in his heart but emptiness and misery. He thought about tossing himself off the fortifications more than once – everyone in his family had either gone or perished, so why shouldn’t he – except the poignancy of promises, of convictions, of accursed vengeance wove too closely through his blood and kept him in place. So he wallowed in his misery until the dawn rose, high in the sky, vivid with illustrious hues, and he stared at it, narrowed his eyes, and was nearly urged to spit at its decadence. He maneuvered from misery and guilt to waves of bitter, unrelenting anguish and contempt, and the abhorrence was easier to hold beside him, picking his way down the mountain with such brutal, rancorous acrimony that even Orsino bit his tongue.

There were still things to do in this realm, but lord, he didn’t want to commit to any of them.

He forgot about the title fallen over his shoulders. He forgot about the tenuous weight of oaths and assurances laden from his lips. He forgot about the shackles and tethers suddenly keeping him bound to this sovereignty, and just pieced together remnants of movement and motions – blank, indifferent, coveting his father’s old expressions as he wandered from plain to plain, from rime to valley. The black kitsune was nothing more than a wayfaring mercenary at his side, looking everywhere but at the crestfallen boy who kept threatening to fall apart. The companion drifted his sights and settled them upon beasts by the lake, and the prince clenched his jaw, kept it tightly in place, tried not to remember the lengths of a funeral, the cascading droplets of an early spring rain. The fox lowered his head and trudged onward, while the youth stood stock still, and watched them for a few moments, uncertain whether he should proceed back into shadow, retreat, brood, reflect on his misery until the sun fell again, or reemerge and attempt to be a phoenix, rising from his father’s fallen scythe.

The scion might have committed to the former, had one of his Soldiers not been a familiar form: Beloved, strange and unnerving, but a willing compatriot to misdeeds and ominous etchings, like a sketch of canvas he could never accurately predict or understand. The other was entirely foreign to him, winged, likely a newcomer – and for a moment he thought his father might come, summoned from the wings, ignited by curiosity and intrigue, welcoming the stranger with his own brand of hospitality. But no ghosts emerged, no wraiths inclined.

Go, was all Orsino hissed, snapping Erebos out of his trance, and the prince yielded only out of habit, following the floating songs of ladies and soldiers, struggling not to lower his head and unravel at the seams, obliging movement and motion until he’d reached the quiet, lulling songs of the lake and proceeded no further. “Good day,” he called over the horizon, nodding his head because it’s what his mother had always said to do to anyone he met, raising it back when it was proper, bestowing a smile that almost certainly didn’t reach his eyes (haunted). “I’m General Erebos. Who are you?” He extended towards the painted Pegasus, and the title still sounded strange across his tongue, stupid, asinine. But he remained amiable, rose to its pretenses because it’s what he’d always done, forcing pretenses along his mouth when all he wanted to do was be alone, be away. “I trust Beloved has treated you well,” and here he raised a brow, almost cunning, nearly himself, urged to delve into chicanery and charisma because it was familiar and known (and his lines were nearly a joke unto themselves, for he’d seen her capabilities, heard the warrioress’s promises before).

Beloved cackles at the I’ll just fly in comment and, at least to Weaver, it doesn’t seem like an amused oh that’s funny cackle. It seems like a cackle that knows something Weaver doesn’t. Which wouldn’t be shocking. Weaver barely knows the name of the place she’s decided to call home for at least the next ten minutes, let alone what exactly is going on in this place. Her reply comes with a knowing smirk, and Weaver swings her head a little more in Beloved’s direction at that look. “What aren’t you telling me?” she says, her voice serious, doing her best to keep the demand out of the question. But this seems like one of those things she should probably know.

Maybe not. Maybe she’s totally fucking wrong. But she doubts it. Beloved didn’t strike her as subtle. Just weird. They keep going, and Beloved answers questions in ways Weaver doesn’t entirely understand. Is it simply the way the pale mare speaks, or is it because there’s a language here that the girl doesn’t speak yet. She thinks the former, but like everything else, has no point of reference to actually have a clue.

It’s a strange realization, that she knows nothing. Before, she was a princess. Daughter of a feared Queen. And while yes, not living in her mother’s shadow is a glorious thing, it was nice to be on the inside of the circle. She never experienced life outside that circle. Her time away from her mother’s inner circle was time spent away from most every circle, flitting from place to place as a guest, not as a potential recruit.

A whole slew of retorts come to mind at the comment that everyone else are merely faces, that Weaver would not know the names. She doesn’t even know the names Hotaru or Erebos (though the later reminds her of her brother). Everyone is a nameless face to the girl, other than Beloved, who names herself repeatedly enough that Weaver isn’t about to forget this particular name. For once, she keeps her mouth shut though, and it’s not long before she gets a face for one of those names anyway.

Soon, a black unicorn (and she’s beginning to wonder if this particular thing is what no one is telling her, or if she just so happened to draw unicorns to her side) appears. He does not come particularly close, but close enough, introducing himself as General Erebos. He reminds her of Erebor in looks and name, though Erebor born no horn. At one point in her life, Weaver had neither wings nor horn, though no one here need know that. “Weaver,” she offers, dipping her head own in a vague show of being polite. It’s not a bow, but it’s something.

She’s never bowed her head to anyone. It’s a strange feeling.

He keeps talking, brow raising, a bit of charm creeping into his words. It takes a lot of restraint for her to resist the urge to flirt, for no other reason than flirting is fun. Instead she smiles, and it too is a charismatic but mischievous thing, her voice that sort of smoky, sexy sound. This is always how she is though. These things she cannot change. “Beloved has been a good hostess, thank you.” A strange hostess, yes, but not bad. She’s answered Weaver’s questions and put up with her crap.

Beloved’s lips split into a jester’s smile, too toothy, too wide, her giggles high and swift. Looking about quickly, and finding no others who ghost, in waiting, to capture her secrets, without payment, the woman offers the smallest of tidbits, a taste.

"Once, you’d have found no home here," explains the woman, her crown tilting, her tongue tasting the cold air, brushing the pink tint of her lips, her bubbles of laughter small, more bleats, than peals, "yet runs the river still, and you are here, now."

The water reveals the dark reflection of the General as he approaches, the demoness turns to greet him with a titled grin, and the glimmering eyes of a cat, offering its prize to the one who feeds it. Aside from her incessant giggling, she is otherwise silent, her eyes narrowing in silent threat upon Weaver, a preemptive glare, should she decide to lie, and say that Beloved had been anything less than a perfect madwoman.

Grinning madly when the exchange goes in her favor (as it rightly well should have!), she placidly purrs and giggles, her eyes shooting suddenly from Yr’s Weaver, to her General.

"We haven’t a clue what she is good for," bluntly remarks the wicked one, having only now realized that she’d forgotten to ask the most pivotal question, other than “who are you?,” of course; with another sudden pivot, her eyes fall on the dark hybrid, her curiously quivering lips bouncing around her exuberant questions, "what is it, what you are?"

Beloved was a blade, sentient and vile, which had allowed a boy General to wield her, for now. Though her edges had dulled in disuse, she certainly could be tempered and honed again, for the proper reason, and given the means; she would rise again. She would drive through the world, and laugh at the severance of all in her wake, whether thrown from here, upon the peak of this mountain, or from the very bowels of the blackest, most abysmal realms of the underdark, below, and she had known so all her life. She had been born wicked, and baseless, a kin-slayer within the first year of her life, because she had always known her purpose: to be the darkness, snuffing out light, the dark blanket of night eased over the bright glimmer of day. She expected others to know, too, what their shape and service was, how and where they were meant to be, even if she did not expect them to have paid the same rights as she.

Unseen motions and moments transpired – Erebos could feel it through the tucked away insinuations, the barbs and thorns kept close at hand, the riddles floating through manic giggles. He tilted his head and bore his pretense well, because it was all he could do to stay present in the world of furtive, specious secrets, too many unsaid notions and schemes, and if they intended to wield deceptions he’d do the same; duplicitous and mercenary until the bitter end. The newcomer offered her name (Weaver - and he almost laughed because of the symbolism of the mountains and the title prospered across her lips; then imagined she’d take up knitting the cloth and become Weaver the Weaver), and his smile deepened, not Cheshire, not smirking, but kind, friendly, composed, seemingly genuine when all he yearned to do was bow his head and be left alone in a cave to shed his mask and sulk. We haven’t a clue what she is good for came Beloved’s reply, and his brow remained arched, intrigued, cursed with the notion to chuckle once more simply because he didn’t know what he was good for either, and maybe they could all bask in the equanimity of nothingness and ineptitude. He could drown in its weight and no one would notice until it was too late, and they’d shake their heads, clamor something about worthless princes and too young, too stupid and he’d proven them right all along – he wasn’t meant to be anything or anyone.

But the boy failed to sink now. He swallowed down the lost senses, the guilt, the apprehension and confidence eating away at his bones, at his marrow, at his flesh, at his schemes, wallowing delicately between the unknown and the foretold – piecing together chosen words and phrases, pretending he had a notion glimmering between his teeth, tongue, and grin. “Perhaps we have a rank suitable to your talents.” The scion shuffled closer, gaining ground along the lake, nearly daring himself to run across its surface, but pondering over it a moment later as a means of escape, if the whims and mercurial exploits turned back upon him. His voice was charismatic and appealing, granting choices, options, on the hinges of the prominence’s icy peaks and valleys, eyes sliding back to the painted mare, to his demonic warrior, curious, intrigued, interested. “There are soldiers, crafters, healers, scholars, and sleuths to pick from.” Endless opportunities and the needs to fill them were an eternal demand; with the Basin’s strengths faltering, they’d all had to step into roles (maybe some unsuitable and here he thought of himself, of the boy General who conspired to ruin and devastate but only his own targets). What she yearned, craved, and wanted to do could be instrumental, monumental to their empire, or designated to flicker away, like so many others before her (and here the youth seemed to pinpoint his hopes on her being incapable of disappearing, pleading, begging, that she’d be one of the strong, one of the determined).

She likes Beloved. Really, she does. She can handle the creepy laughing and the toothy smile and all the weird, off-kilter sort of stuff. But the talking in half puzzles is killing her. She’s a smart girl, and she can draw some conclusions from in-between the lines. Apparently wings are a thing frowned upon here. But she doesn’t want to have to guess that this is in fact the thing that might be problematic. She just wants someone to tell her, point blank. But that seems like the thing here. Who even cares if she has wings? But then again, she came from a world were those without magic hated those with magic (some days, anyway, it always did depend on the monarch). The idea is foreign to her. But they are only wings.

What would the members of the Basin think if they knew she was born with none of the things that now adorned her body. That once, she was simply a black and white girl with nothing to note. She’d earned her mastery over death. She’s been given the wings from her mother, when Yael had thought it was a brilliant idea to dangle Weaver miles off the ground. She’d gotten the horns as a gift from a strange witch doctor she’d found in some forest on her way here. Cliché? Definitely. But she’s gotten horns out of it. A rather deadly little tiara.

She has to give it to Beloved for being blunt now though. Where she spoke half in riddles to answer Weaver’s questions, now she’s straight to the point. We haven’t a clue what she is good for, the mare says. So apparently this isn’t the kind of place where she gets to sit on her laurels. Not that she expected it, mind you, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be a nice change of pace. What are you? the pale ghost asks, rather than What can you do? Though the slightly round-about question doesn’t surprise Weaver at this point.

Erebos is more forthcoming, though she finds herself watching him and thinking more than listening to his words. He reminds her of Erebor, though as she approaches, she realizes he’s more blue than black. Where Erebor’s eyes were hard as granites, Erebos’ are more like a storm. And she is rather intrigued by the young General, though she can’t let that show with Beloved staring at them. She’s not sure what intrigues him though, except perhaps that he reminds her a bit of home.

He gives her a list of jobs they have here. Far more than any kingdom back in her old home, where they had soldiers and diplomats. If he’d told her that she could be Weaver the Weaver, she might have actually jumped at the opportunity. Just because it would be ridiculous, and amusing. But she doesn’t know this, so instead she says, “I’m rather good at not dying,” she says simply, because they wanted to know what she was good for.

“You don’t wander alone for a year without picking up some various skills,” she adds, because she can do almost anything. But she’s untrained and unkempt in all those things. A jack of all trades and a master of none. “I’m best suited as a solider, but if don’t need more of those, I could help elsewhere.” She rolls her shoulders in something of a shrug. Not that she’d make for a very kind healer (It hurts? Oh, suck it up.), but she could do it. Or she would be Weaver the Weaver for comic relief.

Of course, the General is more to Weaver’s liking; Beloved is not entirely surprised, however, allowing the attention of her prize to linger on the boy who would be conqueror, she herself drifting her haunting, giggle accompanied focus between either the blue stag, or the two toned female.

More finite, the young warrior’s words draw a more rational expression to the mask of Yr’s woman, rather than the befuddlement which often follows Beloved’s inquiries, and remarks. Suitable, these places where the words are not lost on foolish ears, these fellows to bring the deaf and dumb to, she thinks, a pleasant change from her solitary wandering, or years free, in the dark, where it was only herself, and they.

Imprecise, the decision as to whether they were whisper, or real, unlike this vision, quite tangible, and very much a part of the now; such are her thoughts when Weaver again speaks, drawn from her inner dwelling to look out, with laughter, her ears drinking in the sweetly bemusing statement which the hybrid offers the General.

Not dying, indeed; Beloved also knows this skill. Does Yr’s Weaver know to of death? A soldier, yes, but a knife…

Her eyes narrow, lips searched for answers by an eager, bubblegum tongue tip, her ears moving this way, that, as if chasing the thoughts which flitter about her mind.

Does it even matter? Laughs the demoness, her pale tail flashing against her flanks, an amused, feminine hum following her tittering giggles into silence.

“A rather reputable talent, nonetheless.” He laughed, not mocking, but purely amused, a tinge of mischief springing across his tongue, because more of them could use the skill of not dying. Then his heart hurt, his chest bled out severe, acrimonious urges (to run, to flee, to get away from joking about death when his father had just taken his last breath). But he didn’t let them know, didn’t let them see, pretended the effect was merely nothing, happenstance, so the cruelties and enigmas didn’t play out across his face, didn’t render him into anything but the hospitable, young General, trying desperately not to fail. The boy’s head tilted, lips curling in a content, gratified exposition, a charming turn, a careful study, another brief examination towards the newcomer garbed in black and white. When Beloved offered naught else but more of her manic giggles (and what were those supposed to mean - in context, in contrast, in phrases and ruminations?), he obliged the stranger, courting tenacity and ambition, yearning for the masses to join him on hunts, on patrols, on strolls towards devastation and recoil. We could be strong again might’ve been a spiraling noose on his tongue, imagining their frozen world heralded by a bounty of mighty, stalwart cretins, ready to defend its glacial walls, its wondrous, snow-capped towers, and show that his father’s legacy could live on (he could be something) through endurance, through fortitude, through leagues of strangers becoming a force to be reckoned with. He’d lead them there, consecrate, bless, anoint them with the savage arts, the nefarious motions, and they could show the world exactly what the Basin was made of (blistering, scathing machinations and condemnable revelations; all in due course, all in due time). “We’d be happy to have another soldier amongst us.” His grin twisted into something revenant, holy, pure, virtuous, gallant, defiant to the mercurial whims thundering over his soul: torn and twisted and polished into too many different roles and pretenses. “Once you get the lay of the land, we can spar, if you’d like.” Then she could learn more than just how not to take one's last breath, and they could succeed (they could triumph).

If she’s being accurate, she’s good at not staying dead. But that’s an awkward sentence, so she doesn’t stick to exact accuracy with this one. She dies, she just doesn’t stay dead. It’s happened twice. Once at Death’s gentle touch, the very touch that has since given her mastery over death. She will meet him again, one day, but it will be at her choosing that she falls into her arms once again. The second time was at the hands of a particularly cruel herd that she’d stumbled into in the middle of the night. Hadn’t even seen them coming, and certainly didn’t stand a chance. There were a handful of faded scars along her right ribcage where she’d taken that beating. They’d left her lying in the dirt and the mud to die, certain that she would still be there the morning when the sun’s rays shone. She was long gone, leaving only traces of blood behind.

She didn’t like to make a habit of dying, however. It hurt. She wanted to learn how to be more than an unruly, double-edge sword. She was all instinct and no finesse. All fearlessness and foolishness, no calculating plans. Beloved giggles away, which Weaver finds she’s quickly getting used to. She likes the mare, even the weird giggles, but she does find Erebos a little more interesting. Well no, that’s the wrong word. He’s just a bit easier to understand, and he’s so much like her brother it’s a little captivating and haunting. In the place where she’d come to get away from her home, she finds him.

Would Beloved understand that fascination, that it is no insult to the pale mare herself? Maybe, maybe not. Though Weaver isn’t the kind to worry much about insulting others, though the fact that this thought crosses her mind is something. She likes Beloved enough to think about the possibility of this. But really, how would she explain it to her? Besides, Weaver sort of doubts Beloved cares.

If only he would tell her of his dreams to be strong again. She would work for that anyway – she always did, desired nothing less than strength and power. But what could they be together, if she knew? Not that she knows what they might accomplish together either – she does not know this young General enough to have a clue – but how a girl could dream about that. Dream about the havoc that she could wreak in a world where she could not die, with others beside her that longed for something similar.

He accepts her into their ranks though, naming her a solider, and she offers a smile and a nod. “I’d love to spar. You let me know when General. I’m always ready.” At that, her grin grows a little wider, that mischievous Mona Lisa-like smile that knows more than it says. Not that she knows anything in this new land, but if you act like you own the place, one day you will.